


There’s a Room Where the Light Won’t Find You

by angelheadedhipster



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Also everyone's elaborate confused betrayal feelings, Also lots of kissing, Demonic Possession, F/M, Gen, Ichabod Crane in a suit, Ichabod Crane in leather, Makeouts, Shooting, That was pretty much the point of this excercise, Yuletide, abbie being exasperated, evil!ichabod, flames, is the best., pinch hit, sexy!ichabod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ichabod caught her staring, and there was a look in his eyes. Something Abbie had never seen before hidden in the depths of his face, something heated and almost sinister, something - dark. His lips were curling now, into a smirk. And not a usual Crane smirk, not something earnest and cheerful and maybe even gleeful. This was a slow curve, a cruel twist..."</p><p>When an evil person uses an evil sword against an evil demon, all that evil has to go somewhere, doesn't it? </p><p> </p><p>Takes place immediately after the mid-season finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There’s a Room Where the Light Won’t Find You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calliopes_pen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliopes_pen/gifts).



> My darling darling Yuletidee - this was a bit of a rush job, and so I apologize for any typos or strange wording. I did not really have time this week to take on a pinch, but this prompt was SO GOOD that I literally could not help it. Anyway, I hope you like it!  
> Like I said, it's fairly unedited, so if you notice it changing or sputtering as you read it, that's me or my beta friend going back in and fixing errors. Apologies! Somehow I wrote 12 pages on this thing and I really didn't have time to do so OR figure out the spelling of words! I love you!

Abbie was panting, and her eyes were still seeing stars from the great flash that had been Moloch disintegrating. Henry had done that - she had to admit, she hadn’t seen that coming.

There was a grunt to her left, as if Crane had been punched in the gut, all the air knocked out of him. Sucker punched.

“What’s going on? Is anyone hurt? Jenny, Crane?”

“I’m fine, Abbie.” Jenny was beside her, and she sounded normal.

“As am I,” came Katrina’s lighter tone, melodious as always.

“Crane?” Abbie asked. “Crane? Ich-”

“Yes,” said his voice, shortly. Her vision was clearing now, but still spotty. She could feel him moving next to her, heard the sounds of his coat scratching against the tree. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” said Abbie, nodding. He sounded...off, somehow. But then of course they probably all did. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes,” said Ichabod. He was staring at his hands now, and somehow seemed to no longer be tied up. How had that happened?

He looked...he looked different somehow. Abbie’s eyes raked over his tall frame, as they did more often than she liked to admit. Long legs, long fingers, tendrils of hair in his eyes. Were his eyes a bit darker than usual? That didn’t even make any sense.

He caught her staring, and there was a look in his eyes. Something Abbie had never seen before hidden in the depths of his face, something heated and almost sinister, something - dark. His lips were curling now, into a smirk. And not a usual Crane smirk, not something earnest and cheerful and maybe even gleeful. This was a slow curve, a cruel twist..

“Allow me,” said Crane, and clapped his hands together. He strode over to the tree where Katrina was tied, making quick work of the vines that trapped her.

“Thank you,” said Katrina, but she looked down at her hands, not in his eyes.

Ichabod stared at her a moment - she was rubbing her wrists, getting feeling back into them. Abbie couldn't see his face, but she wanted to yell at him. She was still tied to a tree, and no one was paying attention.

“Crane? A little help here maybe?”

Ichabod’s face was focused on Katrina, and his hands were resting on her waist. Katrina was looking up at him, her curls framing her face, her blue eyes wide. “Ichabod, I-”

But Katrina didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence, because Ichabod was kissing her. His hands clamped down on her waist and he was surging forward, his mouth fiercely on hers.. Abbie heard Katrina make a little squeak, and then it seemed that the breath was knocked out of her. She was pressing back against the tree and Abbie could see that Ichabod was forcing her into it, pressing against her, and kissing her harder than Abbie thought she had ever seen him do. Had she ever seen them kiss? Now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure. Ichabod was usually fairly proper, concerned about propriety and appearances and what a gentleman must do.

That, what he was doing to Katrina - with his tongue and his hands, her gasps coming short and sharp, bending down to get more of her... well, that was hardly what Abbie thought gentlemen did.

To her left, she heard Jenny make a spluttering noise, somewhere between a laugh and an offended squeak.

“Uh, Crane?” Abbie said. “Hate to interrupt, but I am still tied to this tree.”

Ichabod half turned sideways, his mouth still voracious on Katrina’s, and that look was still in his eye. It wasn’t desire, because there was something too calculating and cold in it for that. But if it wasn’t desire, Abbie didn’t know what it was.

“Yes, Katrina, can you do that?” He had backed away from her now, and was looking at Abbie even as he spoke to his wife. “And Miss Jenny, too.”

“Yeah, thanks for remembering me,” Jenny muttered.

Katrina was still flushed, hair plastered to her face, in her mouth. She was gaping at her husband, her chest rising and falling in that corset she was still wearing.

“I have matters to attend to,” Ichabod said. He wasn’t looking at Katrina, even now, his eyes still smoldering at Abbie. One hand was still on his wife’s stomach, the fingers twitching slightly on her hip. He flashed Abbie what could only be described as a grin, and then...

Then he walked off.

"What..." Abbie said, trailing off as Katrina came over to untie her, eyes still wide and chest still heaving. "Has that...did he just leave us here?"

"I admit," said Katrina "that was entirely uncommon behavior." Her hands were on Abbie now, and her mouth had finally closed, though she was smiling slightly at the corners. "Though not entirely unwelcome" she added.

"Yeah maybe for you," said Jenny. Her eyes were huge, and she seemed to have been struck as speechless by that display as Abbie had been. Although with Jenny, speechless never lasted long. "Anyone want to untie me and we can get the hell out of here?

It took some time before Abbie could get back to the Archives. There were reports to make, explaining to do, people to patch up and people to lie to. And there was Captain Irving, or rather, Captain Irving's body, and Abbie would never be used to saying that.

It was awhile before she was back there, and in all that time she didn't hear from Crane. Or see him. Or hear anything about him. It was the first time since they'd met, she was pretty sure, that they'd gone this long without seeing each other, let alone speaking. And that included the time she'd gone to Detroit to visit family for a few days-they'd talked every day. Crane had even consented to learn how to use Skype, much as he belabored the process.

And now, nothing. Abbie felt the absence keenly, was surprised by how much it felt like a physical ache. She found herself turning around while out and about, her chin rising up to look up at someone much taller than her - but there was no one there. No new properly spelled texts on her phone, no irate phone calls about reality television. It felt like she was missing something important - an arm, or part of her brain.

Which is why when she walked in to the Archives and saw Ichabod standing at the lectern, peering at some historical tome as if nothing had happened, it took her a few moments of gaping to even realize what was different.

"Crane, I-"

"Oh, hello, Leftenant," he said, but he didn't look up. He turned the page, his brow furrowing as he leaned in.

Abbie finally figured out what was so weird about him at this moment. He wasn’t wearing his usual clothes, what she thought of as his ‘garb’-  no breeches, no strange coat thing, nothing painstakingly hand crafted and cared for. Rather, he was wearing a suit. Ichabod Crane, who still acted as if wearing skinny jeans was the worst torture he’d ever endured, seemed to be voluntarily wearing a suit. A black suit and a white shirt, with a skinny black tie. He looked good in it, too. Of course he did - he was more than six feet tall and incredibly fit. He was made for designer suits, as Abbie had tried to impress upon him almost a year ago now, before he made some squawking noises about propriety and she backed off.

“Crane!” Abbie said, and then she was stuck. She felt furious at having been abandoned, but also relieved to see him and know he was alright, and confused by what he was doing here and why he hadn’t said anything, and somehow the only thing she could think to say was “I told you Tom Ford was a good idea.”

“Hmm?” said Crane. He still hadn’t looked at her, she realized. He was flicking pages as if nothing had changed, as if she’d been there for hours. “Oh, that dilettante? Hardly.”

“Oh, so what is it? Something old and stuffy?” Abbie asked, before mentally shushing herself. Why was she talking about menswear now? Crane always did this to her - whatever she threw at him, he lobbed it back, until they were having some argument about nothing that seemed to matter terribly. He drew her focus from everything else, until all she thought about was the last thing he said.

She pulled herself back, mentally, and stepped forward to see what he was reading. Building codes? Thats what it looked like to her.

“What are you researching?” she asked. A safe topic, before she started in on ‘where have you been,’ which would only lead to..she didn’t know what.

“Things,” he said. And that was it.

Silence descended in the archive room, but it wasn’t the happy companionable silence that Abbie was used to there, the sounds of people bustling around absorbing knowledge, making plans. That silence felt like a cocoon, something warm and safe, and it was hard to leave when things felt like that, especially on some incredibly dangerous mission, which they usually were. This silence felt isolating, dangerous. They weren’t together now, they were separate, and for the first time Abbie didn’t want to be there.

“Researching what?” Abbie asked again, louder and more clipped this time, masking her confusion and discomfort with anger.

Crane finally looked up at her. That darkness was in his eyes again, or maybe it was just the blackness of his suit reflected. His hair spilled over the collar in an artful sweep, making his eyes look even larger and his cheekbones more pronounced. His long fingers closed the book he was reading with a snap, and he strode toward her. Even his walk was different - less the distracted gait of an absentminded professor, more the focused stalk of a predator. Usually when he walked like that he had a sword or a rifle in his hand.

“I had research to do,” he said innocuously, but his eyes were boring into hers. It was like he was trying to see something at the bottom of her eye sockets. Or like he could see something there, and he wasn’t going to tell her what. “I’ve finished now,” he said. “I’ll be leaving,” but he didn’t move, didn’t tear his eyes away from hers. He looked down at her, a slight smirk on his lips.

“Crane, what the fuck.” Abbie finally exploded. “Where have you been? What are you doing here? Why are you wearing that?”

His expression did not change, except that perhaps his smirk deepened, a little bit. He moved one step closer to her, and they were really close now, she had to tilt her head all the way back to maintain eye contact with him. He looked at her for another few seconds, and then again, maddeningly, he walked off without another word.   
Abbie still had her head cocked up when she heard the door close.

And that was it. She didn’t see anything of Crane for the whole rest of the day, but she heard about him. In two very distinct and very different instances.

First, there was a phone call from her bank.

“Ms. Mills,” the teller’s voice said, and Abbie flinched. “This is your financial professional. Your security is very important to us. We just wanted to confirm the authorized withdrawal of 4987 dollars and 67 cents from your account this morning.”

“The what now?” Abbie said. “I didn’t do that. I have not logged into my account today. What are you talking about?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded a bit flustered. “Ms. Mills, we apologize. Your partner came into our Sleepy Hollow branch and made the withdrawal.”

“Partner?”

“Yes, he-”

Abbie cut off the customer service tones. “I’m coming down to your bank. Be there in ten.”

Twenty minutes later, Abbie was sitting with a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty, asking her to recount what had happened, and trying not to slip too much into ‘scary lady cop’ mode. It wasn’t this girl’s fault someone had emptied her account. Probably.

“And can you describe this person?” she asked her.

The girl’s eyes, already wide and scared, got wider. “Hot,” she said. “Really, really hot.”

Oh, good. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

“He was tall. Wearing a suit, a really nice one. Dark hair, long, like half up, yknow? And he spoke with this gorgeous British accent, and when he smiled the corners of his lips turned up.”

Abbie could feel anger building, anger and also fear. What on earth was Crane doing? And why?

“Oh and these big dark eyes. Brown, but like, really dark. He looked right at me when he talked and I was like, whoa.”

“Whoa,” Abbie repeated, making no attempt to hide her disdain.

“Yeah, that I definitely remember, I’m sure of it.”

“What did he say?” Abbie asked. She didn’t ask “why did you give him a bunch of my money?”

“He said he wanted to make a large withdrawal, from an account. Said he needed it soon. He smiled at that - sort of like a smirk, yknow? His tongue came out,” the teller said.

Abbie controlled her temper, although she could certainly picture that. “And you just gave it to him?”

“Well, he had all the right documentation,” the teller said, as if that was obvious. “Your account number, your social, your passport. He said he was your partner, and I thought wow, what a lucky girl!”

Her account number. Her social security number. The passport - that one was easy, that had been at Crane’s house from the last time they’d had to do some governmental bureaucratic stuff to get clearance on some information. Maybe that was where he got her social too. And her account number?

That she’d given to him, she realized. Ages and ages ago, when he first woke up in this century and had nothing, she’d helped him out. Told him how to get money out of her account, bought him a few essentials, co-signed the lease on his cabin in the woods.

That had been more than a year ago, and he’d never mentioned it since. But of course, he still had it. She’d never thought about it - he would ever use it without telling her, never take her money, never betray her. Except that he would.

“You are a lucky girl, you know,” the teller was saying now. “God, he’s hot.”

“I know,” Abbie snapped, and she was already out the door, her mind reeling.

**  
**  


She was walking back into the archives - honestly, she didn’t know where else to go, and maybe she was hoping Crane would be there and she could talk to him about what the hell was going on - when she saw that someone was already there. Someone tall and blond, and who looked like maybe he’d seen yet another ghost.

“Hey, Hawley,” she said, walking in and putting her stuff down. Whatever he was here for, it was probably trouble. Best to get it out of the way now.

“Abbie,” he said, his usual swaggering drawl slightly muted. Something horrible had happened to him, too, no doubt. Had he given his bank account information to a dear friend who’d just cleared him out, too?

Abbie leaned against a desk, facing the mercenary treasure hunter. She knew she should be concerned, or at least curious about why he was here, but mostly she was just tired, and confused, and vaguely annoyed.

“Have you talked to Crane today?” Hawley asked.

Of course.

“Barely,” Abbie said. “I’ve heard an awful lot about him, though. What’s your story?”

“He came by my place,” Hawley said, slowly. “He came by and bought a bunch of weapons.”

“Weapons?” Abbie said. She wasn’t surprised, exactly. “Like enchanted stuff, stuff to fight Moloch with?”

“Sure, some of that,” Hawley answered. “And some that were enchanted to be good in a fight, and some that were evil, and some that were just guns.”

“Just guns?”

“Just, yknow, guns. No supernatural powers whatsoever. Shiny metal, fires bullets, very fast. Very deadly.”

“He bought regular guns?”

“All my regular guns. He bought more of those than the spelled ones, actually. Also, swords.” Hawley was looking at her now, waiting for her reaction. He looked stunned, mostly, but not worried.

“Swords, and guns,” Abbie said. “Great. Just what we needed. And you let him just walk away with this stuff?”

“He didn’t just walk away,” Hawley said, now sounding more like himself, a little less tentative. “He paid me for all of it, obviously. I’m not running a charity here.”

“Yes, okay.” With my money, Abbie thought. “But you let him?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hawley asked. He was walking towards her now, his eyes narrowed. “You two are the good guys, right? He shows up with some cold hard cash, telling me he needs an arsenal for something, who am I to say no? I figured I was doing something for the side of right and all that.”

“Did you now,” Abbie said. Her hand was on her forehead now, massaging her temples. This was all getting more complicated, and probably worse. “Well, if none of this made you worried at all, why are you here?”

Hawley paused now. He was standing closer to her, and his hands, which had been gesticulating as he talked, went down to his sides. He stood still for a minute, and then said,

“Because I think he was flirting with me.”

“ _Really_ ,” Abbie said. Without thinking about it, she laughed.

“It’s not funny! It’s...it was weird. It wasn’t quite flirting? But he kept staring at me, like, really hard.”  
“Yeah,” Abbie said. That sounded familiar.

“At my eyes, but also at...other parts of me,” Hawley said, and raised an eyebrow.

Abbie tried to stifle her laugh, but it came out as a sort of snuffle.

“And he said some stuff...Nothing too crazy, but, yknow, I know when someone’s hitting on me. At least I think I do.”  
“And now you think you do,” Abbie said. “You think Crane was spitting game at you.”

“I think he was!” Hawley said. He looked so flustered and befuddled that Abbie had to feel sorry for him. It wasn’t quite getting robbed by your best friend, but it was a confusing day for everyone, clearly.

“You know what, maybe he was,” she said, and stood up, walking over to the bookshelf that held some of the mythology volumes. “I have no idea what’s going on with that man at this point.”

“What do you mean?” Hawley looked at her earnestly, his eyes big in his tanned face, soft and warm, like a puppy. “Can I help?”

“I mean,” Abbie started, and then couldn’t finish. How much could she tell Hawley? Something was wrong with Crane, really wrong. Something was wrong with their lives. If this was all a mistake, if it was all going to get worked out, she would feel terrible about having told Hawley - Hawley, whom Crane didn’t trust, who maybe she shouldn’t trust - everything that had happened. And she wasn’t even sure what what had happened. Flirting? What was his endgame?

Abbie sighed and pulled a book off the shelf. “It means I need to do some reading, and I have no idea how you can help. Go home, and I’ll call you if I know anything.”

Abbie had no idea what she was even looking for. “Strange supernatural occurrences that make your best friend act strangely and mean and also sort of flirty, also they like guns?” That was not in any of her indexes, and she doubted anyone wrote books on that.

She was reading about spells that affected the eyes - Ichabod’s eyes had been so dark, the teller had noticed them, too, maybe there was something there - when the door opened. Abbie looked up, and there was Ichabod Crane.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. There was a moment, as the two of them looked at each other, and Abbie felt like she was staring across an ocean, or a chasm. This was their room, this was her other half, her right hand, and she wasn’t sure if she knew this man at all.

He looked different, again. His hair was flying all over, wisps in his face, frizzing out at his neck of his coat. He looked completely wild eyed, and scared. Really scared. She’d never seen him like that. Usually when Crane was worried or frightened about something, it made his spine straighter. It stiffened his resolve, as he would say. But now he looked...he looked like he was drowning. Like he was utterly overwhelmed and there was no hope. His eyes were so bright in his face, it made her heart break.

“Abbie!” He half yelled it, half sobbed, and then he was running towards her.

Abbie stood there, stunned, unsure who or what she was dealing with this time. He never called her Abbie, not unless she was dying.

He was hugging her now, way way too tight. His hair was flying in her face, in her mouth, and her nose was scrunched up against his chest. He was so damn tall.

He pulled back and his hands were gripping her upper arms now, too hard, she would have bruises, and she never bruised. She stared at him as he leaned down to be at her level, his neck bending. His eyes were bright, he almost looked like he was crying, or struggling with some great pain. As she watched they seemed to flicker - now dark blue, now brighter, now navy again, as if a shadow was passing over his face, but on the inside of him.

“Abbie, listen to me,” he said. He was speaking so fast, and his voice was almost wavering, as if he couldn’t get the words out.

“Leftenant,” she said, dumbly. He never called her Abbie.

“You cannot trust me,” Ichabod said. “It’s not me. Do you hear me?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ichabod shuddered, his fingers pressing into her, spasming against her skin. He closed his eyes, gasping, and when he opened them again he looked different.

“Ms Mills,” he said, “I require-”

Another shudder, and his eyes stayed open this time, and she watched the colors actually change. She could see it, and it was one of the strangest things she’d ever seen happen to a person (only one of them, though. This was still Sleepy Hollow). It was as if a black liquid stole across his eyes, and across his whole face, and across his body. Then it was gone again.

“Abbie, I can’t hold on, I’m fighting it, but you have to go, you can’t listen to anything I say. Abbie, I’m so sorry, I won’t if-”

Another shudder, this one even more dramatic. Ichabod cried out, pain etched all over his face, and then he kissed her.

She froze, completely stunned. In a long day of strange occurrences, this was the most surprising. Ichabod’s hands were still on her shoulders, now wrapping around her, pulling her towards him. His mouth was against hers, the stubble bristling against her skin. He kissed like it was the only thing he could think of doing, like she was sunlight and he was freezing in the darkness.

She was off balance now, and one of her boots came off the floor, and somehow moved closer to him. She was completely enfolded in Ichabod now, his hands trailing down her back, his hair wisping against her cheeks. Her whole torso fit into his chest, and he was so warm, the muscles of his chest tight and taut against her. Without thinking, her own hands came up - she wasn’t sure whether her intention was to push him away or grab him towards her, but as soon as her palms touched his chest she couldn’t think anymore, could only gasp and reach for more.

Her fingers were bunching in his shirt, in his jacket. One hand found his tie and pulled, angling his face down. She was kissing back now, and her lips parted, and it felt so good, so right. Ichabod tasted spicy and sweet, like aged bourbon, heady and intoxicating. Her skin was tingling, she felt lightheaded. Warmth was building in her stomach, spreading lower and out to her hands, her mouth. Ichabod was everywhere, his hands on her neck, her shoulders, arcing lines of fire across her skin. She wanted to be closer, wanted to be as close to him as possible. She couldn’t remember why she was so afraid or worried moments earlier, all that mattered was this, now, here.

He pushed against her and Abbie stepped backwards, pulling him with her, her arms around his shoulders. His hands were on her hips now, on the small of her back, there was no space between them. She took another step back, and hit the book she’d been reading - there was a loud crash as it fell to the floor.

They both froze, and the blood was roaring in Abbie’s ears. The silence was heavy and thick, only the sound of her own pulse. She really couldn’t breathe.

Abbie stepped back, untangling herself. Cold air rushed in where Ichabod’s hands had been, where her body had been pressed against him. It was like stepping from a warm bath into an icy pool, or like getting out from under the covers when the house was cold. She was breathing heavily now, gasping. Oh, god, she thought. Katrina.

Ichabod was staring at her, the hair in his eyes, some of her lipgloss smeared across his jaw. His eyes were dark now and his pupils were huge, blown. He was breathing heavily too.

As she stared at him, he straightened up, and it was like she could watch his spine stacking itself, reforming himself. He smoothed his hair back, straightened his shirt, his jacket. He was still staring at her, those eyes so dark.

“I have found that often,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and throaty, “the simplest option is to give in to the desire.”

And then he was gone, yet again. With no explanation, saying nothing.

Abbie didn’t watch him leave. She picked up the book that had fallen behind her, and flipped to the index. She knew what she was looking for now

She ran her finger down the P’s until she found it -  _possession_.

Hours later, she was still in the archives, but she knew a bit more about what was going on, which made her feel a little better. And also a lot worse.

Abbie had read several books, spent some time on Google, and made a few phone calls. It was harder without Crane leaning over her shoulder explaining things, translating for her, bouncing ideas. It had been much slower going, but she had gotten it, she thought.

As far as she could tell, something - and this was the hard part - something had happened when Henry used the sword against Moloch. There was, it sounded like, an excess of evil at that moment, and it had to go somewhere. It seemed to have gone into Ichabod.

It wasn’t him - he’d said that to her, himself. From what she’d read today, it must have taken a tremendous amount of will for him to fight the possession like that, and it would have been incredibly painful. That he had been able to do it for long enough to talk to her was pretty impressive, it seemed. But that was Crane.

Except it hadn’t been. Some of it had - the man who had tried to warn her, who had said not to trust him. That was Ichabod. The man who had strolled into the bank, the man who had visited Hawley, even the man who had kissed Katrina - that was not. That was Ichabod in the grips of a demon.

But what about the man who had kissed her?

Abbie gave up on reading and sighed, her head in her hand.

Ichabod had been struggling with the evil inside of him. He had broken free, and come to her, and then he had wavered, flickered, been himself and not himself. When he kissed her, was that the demon? Or was that the man, her friend, someone who would never ever betray his wife like that, no matter how much he wanted to? Was it both, and neither?

And she had kissed him back. She wasn’t possessed, that she knew. She was just regular Abigail Mills, supposedly one of the good guys. A Witness. A friend to Katrina, even, and yet when Ichabod (or the demon) had kissed her she had barely thought at all, had practically thrown herself at him.

She pushed that thought out of her head. What she had done and why - it didn’t matter. There was a demon in her partner, and she had to get it out. How was she going to stop Ichabod - or rather, the evil inside Ichabod - from whatever his plan was?

Abbie was thankfully interrupted from these musings by her cell phone ringing. _Jenny_.

She didn’t even have time to say hello before Jenny was yelling at her.

“Abbie, you’ve got to get over here, now!”

“Where? What, what’s going on?”

Jenny spluttered into the phone for a minute. “The courthouse, obviously. Have you not been listening to your scanner? There’s a billion cops here.”

Abbie hadn’t. She had been reading, and she’d turned it off, ages ago.

“OK, ok, courthouse. I’m on my way. What’s going on?” Abbie asked, already moving towards the door, gathering her keys and her leather jacket.

“It’s Crane,” Jenny said. “And guns.”

Abbie left her car on the sidewalk near the courthouse. She didn’t think anybody would notice, and she wasn’t the only one. There were several cars stopped in the middle of the road, and people milling everywhere, confusedly. Most of them were staring at the courthouse.

Which was on fire.

Shit. Had Hawley sold Crane a flamethrower, too?

Abbie took out her badge and started doing the usual ‘official business walk’ through the crowd, pushing the civilians aside, getting up close to the building itself.

“Abbie!” Jenny’s voice. Abbie angled herself toward it, off to the north side of the building.

“Abigail, is that you?” That wasn’t Jenny, that was Katrina. Abbie’s stomach flipped a bit as the redhead came into view. Perfect white skin, big eyes that looked concerned, full lips quivering with fear and sadness. Crane’s star-crossed wife. Abbie felt awful, and like she deserved to feel awful.

She’d already resolved not to tell Katrina about what had happened earlier that afternoon, in the Archives. The possession, yes. That Crane wasn’t himself, yes. That this version of Crane had kissed her - and that she’d kissed back - well, no. No good would come of it. It was up to Ichabod to decide what to tell his wife, and it wasn’t Abbie’s place. That was, if Ichabod even remembered. It seemed that in some cases of possession, the possessee had no memory of anything that they’d done, or had been done to them, for the whole time they’d been under the spirit’s control.

Abbie had a feeling they wouldn’t be that lucky this time.

She finally caught up with the other women, and Hawley, who was staring at the courthouse. Jenny and Katrina came over to her, both talking at once, but Abbie didn’t hear them. She was staring at what everyone else, the crowds of citizens, the police, Hawley, was staring at.

Ichabod Crane.

Crane had changed his outfit, again. Whatever evil this was that had possessed him, it certainly had a sense of style. Now he was wearing black jeans - tight ones, not that Abbie was noticing, really - and a leather duster style coat with nothing underneath it.

It was a good length on him, Abbie thought. About the same as the Colonial frock coat he usually wore, just, leather. It flew out behind him as he moved.

He was moving around quite a lot, since he kept having to re-aim the guns. Hawley hadn’t been kidding. There were a lot of guns. There were guns on the ground next to him, there were guns in his hands, and then there were guns strapped to his belt and his back. Abbie couldn’t really tell what he was shooting at - there didn’t seem to be any wounded or bodies next to him. There was also a sword hanging at his side - long, sharp looking, dangerous - and of course, the fire.

“What on earth…” Abbie said.

“Not on earth, I fear,” was Katrina’s answer.

“Yeah I think that’s the problem,” said Jenny.

“Hey, those guns are totally of Earth,” Hawley said. “They used to be mine.”

“What’s he going after, anyway?” Abbie asked. “Or is he just putting on a good show?”

“I don’t know, Abbie,” Jenny said. “By the time we got here, he’d taken the place by storm, gotten everyone out, set it on fire, and fired some guns on it.”

“Casualties?”

Jenny nodded. “Anyone who has gotten too close. None dead, thank god. Yet.”

Abbie nodded back, looked around, and thought about what other options she had. But not for very long.

“Hey, Abbie, where are you - Abbie, he’ll shoot you!”

Probaby not, Abbie thought. Although it was still a possibility.

“Crane!” she shouted as she got up close to him, when there was a pause in the gunfire.

His head rose, and that twisted smirk was back. She checked his eyes - so dark as to be almost black. Just like she expected.

“Ms. Mills,” he said, and his voice was smooth and buttery, but all it did was remind her of the last time she’d heard him speak, the low growl that had been his voice in the Archives. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Not really,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Storming this aesthetically improbable edifice, clearly,” he said. He was laughing at her, but at least he’d stopped shooting.

“Right, of course,” she said. “All right, why?”

“Because,” he said, and he walked closer to her now, tossing the Uzi in his left hand onto the pavement. “Because there is a seal in the basement that opens a portal between dimensions, and I’d like to get to it.”

Abbie flashed back to that morning - had it only been a day ago? Less? - and the book she’d seen Crane looking at in the archives. Building plans. Now it made sense.

“Seems like you could have just walked in and gotten to it with a lot less fuss,” Abbie said.

“It would, to you,” and wasn’t that Crane, right there. “Unfortuantely - or fortunately, I suppose - this particular portal requires extreme heat to open. So I lit the building on fire, because I needed to.”

He was very close to her now, and speaking more quietly, so the crowd couldn’t hear. She was pretty sure Jenny and Katrina and Hawley were behind her now, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off Crane to be sure.

“And also,” he was saying now, leaning close to her, his eyes sparking darkly, “because I wanted to. Because I still want to. Because Ichabod Crane wants to shoot people, wants to set things on fire, wants to, as you Americans are fond of saying, “blow shit up.””

“You’re not Ichabod Crane,” Abbie said, folding her arms over her chest.

“Oh, you realized that?” he answered. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” said Abbie, as smugly as possible.

“It’s true, Ichabod Crane is no longer in full possession of this form. I have take up residence, for as long as it suits my purposes. But I am, of course, still Ichabod Crane as well as the entity I more fully am. This is who he always was, don’t you see?” He was leering at her now, and the grin on his face was otherworldly. “This righteous blubbering soul, this paragon of truth and justice and all those American values. His fingers have been twitching for years to do something like this. Something-” And here Crane walked forward further, close enough that he had to look down to meet her eyes. “Something _bad_.”

“I don’t think any of that is true,” Abbie said. “And I’ve known Crane a lot longer than you have.”

Ichabod-who-wasn’t-Ichabod laughed. It sounded cold, cruel, not like him at all. “It _is_ true,” he said. “Who finds out so much about evil who doesn’t need it? What professor masters warcraft, learns about the demons and gods of the underworld, knows all the worst poisons, hexes, curses, and myriad ways to kill a man or cause him pain? Someone who _needs_ to know. Someone who _wants_ to know.”

“That doesn’t-” Abbie said.

“You forgot, Lieutenant Mills,” he said the name with a sneer. “I’ve been in his head. I’m living here, now. I can hear exactly what he thinks, exactly what he wants. And do you know what he wants?”

He leaned down into her now, one hand still on the handgun in his left hand, the other on his sword hilt.

“He wants you,” Ichabod said. The grin showed all of his teeth.

Abbie didn’t have a response to that.

“That’s all he thinks about, all he wants,” Ichabod continued. “I’ve been listening to him all day, forcing him down, subsuming his will. And when he can think for himself, when he breaks through, what does he say? What does he think?”

He was so close now. Hand still on the gun.

“‘ _Abbie, Abbie, Abbie,_ ” that’s all,” said the thing that was Ichabod. “Not about his wife, not the safety of the world or averting the apocalypse or anything so useful as that. That one moment when I...when I was diverted, and he broke through, where did he go? To you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Abbie said. “He wanted to warn me, to-”

“To kiss you?” Ichabod’s voice said. Abbie flinched, and behind her she heard Katrina gasp. Well, now she knew Katrina was there. Great. “To throw you up against a wall and ravish you? Why yes, that’s exactly what he wanted.”

It was horrible to hear Ichabod’s voice say those things, to watch his mouth move and know that who was speaking wasn’t really her friend but the opposite, a demon enemy, the worst thing in the world. And yet that stupid traitorous part of her listened, heard the word ‘ravish’ in those buttery smooth English tones, and…

“Shut up, asshole,” she snapped.

He laughed, again. “Finally saying something you know to be true, is that it?”

“It’s not true,” Abbie said.

He was closer still now, and one hand was on her, on her shoulder. Her skin jumped at the touch and she couldn’t tell if it was fear or desire that made that happen, that made her pulse spike up. He could feel it, could see it in her eyes. Closer.

“I think it is,” he said. “I think, what’s worse, is you want it to be true.”

 _Don’t_ , Abbie thought. _Don’t give him/it the satisfaction._

“You might be in his head,” Abbie said, speaking slowly, trying to control her breathing, “but you’re not in mine. You don’t know.”

“I think I do,” Ichabod said, and that was it, his other hand was off the gun to touch her face, this was the moment.

“KATRINA, NOW!” Abbie screamed, and hoped that Katrina was listening, that she could focus on what she needed to do, what they’d talked about on the phone, enough to do it, even as her heart was probably breaking.

There was a wind and whooshing noise, and then Katrina’s voice intoning words in a language she didn’t understand. The sky got darker and Ichabod started howling, the sound mixing in with the whistling of the wind. The flames grew higher and his arm spasmed, made to reach for his gun again, even as Katrina was shrieking and Jenny had grabbed at Abbie, pulling her back. There were sparks and dust in the air and in Abbie’s eyes, and she realized she was crying, had been crying, she didn’t know how long, and Katrina was standing there, working her magic with tears running down her own face. There was fire and blackness and screams.

And then suddenly there was silence, utter silence.

There was a giant crack, one last horrible scream, and black goo was oozing out of Ichabod, spiraling up to the sky and down through the ground, and he collapsed.

 


End file.
